“Believe me, I understand. But I was thinking, you know, it being Christmas and all. What the heck. We could even do it quid pro quo—you know, like in Silence of the Lambs. ‘A census taker once tried to test me. I ate his liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti,’” Scott said in his best Anthony Hopkins impersonation, finishing with the skin-crawling slurping sound.
Hicks thought for a moment, then said, “Why not? Okay, I’ve told you about my divorces. Quid pro quo. Where’s your family? Why aren’t you with Mom and Dad?”
“First of all, ‘told you about my divorces’ is a little strong for what you’ve said thus far. But if it will make you feel better, I guess I can launch first. My parents were addicts. Coke, horse, meth—you name it, they took it. There was this one Christmas when I was eight—my parents sent me into a house to score some chiva for them. I heard yelling and screaming as I walked up. I tried to turn around, but my parents wouldn’t let me back in the car without the dope. So I went back and knocked. No one answered the door. I walked in, and the smell in the house nearly bowled me over. It wasn’t until years later when I was with AFSOC that I recognized what that smell was. It was death, hanging big-time in that house.
“So anyway, I look around and see this big nasty-looking guy, hair in a ponytail and all tatted up—I can still see him like he was right in this room. He was standing over his old lady. She was pretty bloodied up by this time. This guy sees me, and before I have a chance to tell him why I’m there, he crosses the room and plants his fist right on my cheek. He knocked out a tooth. I’m lucky he didn’t break my jaw. Then he grabs a handful of my hair and a handful of my pants, carries me to the open door, and literally tosses me out onto the sidewalk and slams the door behind him.
“So I’m all scraped up and bleeding. I go crying and limping up to my parents’ car. My dad rolls down the window and asks if I got the chiva. When I tried to explain what had happened, he flies out of the car, smacks the other side of my jaw, grabs the money from my hand, and drives off with my mom. I walked two and a half miles to get home that day. Needless to say, Santa forgot to leave anything under the tree that year.” Scott downed the rest of his Yoo-hoo and chucked the empty a little harder than he intended into the stainless steel waste can.
“Are your folks still alive?”
“I don’t know, and I can’t say as I care. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate them. I probably should, but I can’t. They were addicted. Nothing was more important than feeding the monkey. That’s why I rarely drink, and I don’t smoke or do anything like that. I’ve seen what the monkey can do, and I don’t want any part of it.”
They were both quiet for a few minutes.
Finally, Scott broke the silence. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone that story before.”
“So, how’d you come from that home to what you are today? A lot of folks would have used that as an excuse for wasting their lives and living off the government.”
“It was one man who did it—one man who changed my life. And believe it or not, he was a librarian—Mr. Pinkerton. Funny, after all these years I still don’t know his first name. He saw something in me—potential, he said. He took the time to let me know that just because my parents were trash, I didn’t have to be. He helped me believe in myself. He helped me get through school and then directed me toward the air force after I botched college. Without him stepping in, I hate to think where I’d be now.”
“You still in contact with him?”
“Nah, he died when I was in Afghanistan. I couldn’t even go to his funeral. When I heard he was gone, that was one of the hardest days of my life. . . . So, buddy, quid pro quo. Let’s hear about you.”
Hicks reached into his desk and pulled out a tumbler and a small bottle of Jack Daniel’s Gentleman Jack. He tilted the bottle toward Scott, who waved it off. After pouring himself two fingers, Hicks began. “My story’s not pretty either, but for a different reason. You took something screwed up and made it good. I took something good and screwed it up—royally. . . . You sure you want to hear about this?”
“I’m all ears,” Scott said, twisting the cap off another Yoo-hoo and kicking his feet up on the desk.
“Well, you asked for it. Without going into too many details, I got married right before heading up to RTC for boot camp. We were both eighteen and stupid, and family planning was certainly not on my mind at the time. I’m seven weeks in when I get a call from my wife, who says she’s pregnant. All I could do is think of the situation in terms of me. It’s too soon. I’m just starting my career. How can I raise a kid? We’re too young. All that junk went through my mind. So I tell her, ‘Baby, this isn’t a good time for us to start a family. Why don’t you get—I can’t even remember her best friend’s name now—why don’t you get your best friend to drive you over to Planned Parenthood and get it taken care of?’
“Well, my wife had a conniption over that. I yelled at her; she yelled at me. I told her that I was the man of the house and that if she wasn’t going to listen to me, she might as well go back home to her mom and dad—which she did. Mom and Dad thought I was the devil anyway, and they promptly had the marriage annulled. So I guess technically I had one annulment and one divorce. Seven months later, I’m at SEAL training. I hear through the grapevine that she’s had a girl—named her Tyler after her brother. Go figure.”
“You ever see Tyler?”
“Yeah, once. Kelly—I guess I never told you her name—Kelly got remarried a few years later. She and her husband settled down in Omaha. One time I get an extended leave. I find out where Kelly’s living, drive out to Omaha, and stake out the house. It’s about 3:30 in the afternoon and I see this twelve-year-old girl come walking down the street. I would have recognized her anywhere—looked exactly like pictures I’ve seen of my dad at that age, only with beautiful, long brown hair. So, anyway, she comes down the street, walks into her house, and I drive off.”
“You never said anything to her?”
“What am I going to say? ‘Hey, sweetheart. I’m the father who wanted you dead. Glad to see you’re still alive and kicking.’ I’m not even sure she knows I exist. Probably better that way. I’m sure she’s got kids of her own by now. Kelly’s husband seemed like a good, white-bread kind of guy. Gave Kelly and Tyler a good, stable home—a heck of a lot better than I could have given them.”
“And what about the second wife?”
A big smile spread across Hicks’s face. “Ah, Marina. I truly thought she was my second chance. I met her about eight years ago. We had a whirlwind romance, and I married her three months later.”
“Sounds like a good start. What happened?”
“9/11 happened. This job happened. When CTD was created as a response to the attack, it became my life. I wanted to find every little Prophet worshiper who even had a passing thought about hurting America. I wanted to find them and make them pay, practically and tangibly. I spent more and more time on the job. I became consumed. When I did go home, I took my job with me. I guess I wasn’t easy to live with, and finally Marina had enough. One night, she let me have it—laid out all her frustrations. I snapped and hit her. Only time it ever happened, but once was enough. She was gone. I can’t say that I blame her; I deserved it. In fact, the only reason I have a career right now is that she didn’t call the cops even though she had every right to. She was and is a great woman. Her biggest mistake was getting mixed up with me.” Hicks looked distant for a moment, then refocused on Scott. “So, what do you think of me now, Weatherman?”
Scott turned his eyes to the desk and didn’t answer right away. When he did speak, he kept his eyes down. “There was something Mr. Pinkerton used to say to me when I blew it big-time. I think it was a quote from somewhere in the Bible. He’d say, ‘Putting the past behind, I press on toward the goal.’” He turned his eyes up to Hicks. “That’s the only way I’ve been able to forgive myself for some of the junk I’ve done in my life. Friend, I think we both have a lot of ‘putting the past behind�
� to do.”
They stared at each other for a moment. Then Scott said, “You sure you don’t want that Christmas hug?”
Hicks laughed. “Shut up and take that box of liquid mud out of my office.”
* * *
After the Christmas feast was consumed, Megan Ricci said, “Sweetheart, why don’t you and Riley go into the living room to digest. Alessandra and I will take care of the dishes.”
“It’s hard to pass up an offer like that,” Ricci replied. As the men got up from the table, Megan gave Riley a quick wink and a nod toward her husband.
Great, Riley thought, Meg got it all worked out, but now I have no idea what I’m going to say to Sal.
The two men entered the living room and settled into a couple of overstuffed leather chairs. The smell of the expensive cowhide filled the air.
“So, let’s have it,” Ricci said.
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever you and Meg were conspiring about. That wink meant that either the two of you have some secret romance going on—which is so not you—or she wants you to talk to me about something.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” Riley responded, trying to regain his footing in the conversation, “there is something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a week or so now. You haven’t been yourself lately, Reech. You’ve been moody; you ripped me a new one on the plane; you’ve isolated yourself from me and Travis and Garrett; and I gotta say, you played Sunday like your mind was anywhere but in the game.”
As Riley watched, Ricci’s expression shifted from neutral to anger to profound sadness and back to neutral. Ricci sighed. “I appreciate your concern. Truly I do. I guess I’m just really feeling the pressure. It was never like this in Europe.”
Riley, relieved that it was what he thought it was, said, “You’re taking the game too seriously. Sure, you want to do your best. Sure, there’s tons of pressure. But you know what? If we lose, you’ll still get up the next day. You’ll still have a wife who loves you. You’ll still have a daughter who thinks you’re the greatest thing since sliced focaccia. The things that matter will still be here.”
Rather than cheer Ricci up, Riley’s words seemed to darken his mood. Finally he said, “Riley, I want you to promise me something.”
“Sure, buddy. Whatever you need, you know you only have to ask.”
“No, I’m serious. I need you to swear to me.”
“Of course, Sal. What is it?”
“I want you to swear to me that if anything ever happens to me, you’ll take care of Meg and Alessandra.”
“C’mon,” Riley laughed, “those Predator DBs are big, but they’re not that big.”
But Ricci wasn’t laughing. “Swear it to me, Riley. If anything ever happens to me, I need to know that my girls are taken care of.”
“Sal, I give you my word,” Riley said somberly. “You never have to worry about Meg or Alessandra.”
“Thanks. I know you’re probably wondering what that was all about,” Ricci said, giving a little self-deprecating chuckle. “I’ve been having these dreams—strange, ugly dreams. I guess they’ve got me a little shaken. You know Italians—we can never shake the feeling that a nightmare is actually someone from the other side warning us that something really bad is about to happen.” He laughed and finished his sentence with ghostly sounds. “Hey, isn’t there a game on right now?” His hand encircled the television remote, and he pressed the red On button.
What was that all about? Riley wondered.
The discussion had certainly taken an unexpected turn. Now, as he looked intently at his friend, something told Riley that this conversation was far from over.
Chapter 14
Monday, December 29
Centennial, Colorado
Riley drove away from the Inverness hotel at 7:30 a.m. His day was open until 2:00 that afternoon, when he needed to be back at the hotel for chapel and the pregame meal, then to drive himself to the stadium, arriving no later than 3:30.
One of the things that made Monday night games at home so great was the same thing that made Monday night games away so terrible. For both home and away games, all the players spent the night at the hotel. However, when they were at home, they could leave the hotel anytime after 6:30 a.m. and spend the morning doing whatever they wanted to do. At away games, the players were stuck in the hotel all day.
Riley had a loose schedule for the day. He was on his way right now to meet his friend Mike Robertson at the Kiowa Creek Sporting Club to shoot some clays. He was fairly certain this wasn’t on Coach Burton’s list of approved activities, but it sure helped relieve some of the pressure on a late game day.
Riley liked to get out shooting at least once a week. Because Robertson worked at the club, Riley was able to shoot all the typical guns he owned plus a few of the “atypical” ones that had happened to find their way into his collection—usually gifts from his old AFSOC buddies. For shooting trap today, Riley had snagged his 12-gauge Perazzi MX2000 with its over-under barrel and beautifully made custom stock. But he also brought along his compact Glock 19 9 mm—midnight black with ten in the clip. And, just for fun, he packed his Crimson Trace laser that attached to the top of the Glock for some pinpoint target practice.
Later, he had designs on the best pastrami sandwich in town at the New York Deli News with Pastor Tim, and sometime in between he had to take Alessandra Ricci’s Christmas present back. Sal and Meg had been very gracious when their nine-month-old girl pulled open the box and yanked out the size 3 Little Mermaid dress that Riley had picked up at The Disney Store. “The others just looked so small,” he had explained. Meg offered to exchange it, but Riley insisted on doing it himself—more out of embarrassment than anything else.
Ricci had been like a different person at the team dinner last night. All the surliness was gone, and he was back to his old self. He had even arranged for a dish of lemon Jell-O with a little whipped cream happy face on it to be delivered to LeMonjello Fredericks. The big lineman’s threats almost got the name of the culprit out of the poor waiter who delivered it, but the second fifty-dollar bill that Ricci had promised him if he survived LeMonjello’s assault was enough incentive to cause temporary amnesia.
Although Riley tried not to think too much about the game, it was never far from his mind. The Predators’ passing game was good, but their running game was great. Their lead halfback, James Anderson, had the size of Jerome Bettis and the speed and cutting ability of Barry Sanders. Riley knew that whatever the ultimate outcome of the game, he was going to be exhausted and in pain. At least when all was said and done tonight, he could hop into his truck and drive home. There was nothing worse than a long flight back to Denver when you were too sore to even sit.
Monday, December 29
United States
The faint metallic smell from the warming brass reached his nose. Hakeem sat at his desk, nervously rubbing the disk between his fingers. All the plans had been made. His men knew their roles, and he expected that they had been ritually purified by now. His own part was ready to go—checked and rechecked and re-rechecked over the past few days.
He held up the disk and read the word that was engraved on it in seven languages—honor. That’s what today is about—restoring my family’s honor. Who did this to you, America? The family of Qasim! Never forget that name. And even if you try to erase it from your memory, I’ll make sure you are reminded.
Hakeem reached into his bag and brought out a hammer and a narrow awl. Getting down on the floor, he placed the tip of the awl at the exact point where the three daggers met. With one strong, well-placed hit of the hammer, the awl punctured the brass disk right through the middle. Hakeem then reached back into his bag and brought out a new fourteen-karat gold chain and threaded it through the hole. Placing the chain over his head, he stood and looked in the mirror. There, the symbol of your honor is back over your heart where it belongs—where Uncle Ali originally intended it to be.
After admiring th
e necklace for a minute, he tucked it under his shirt, feeling its weight against the pillow of hair on his chest. Everything was ready. All that was left to do now was wait.
Monday, December 29
Aurora, Colorado
“Are you ready for some football?” Marti and Kevin Goff called from the back bedroom.
“Yes, I’m ready. I’ve been ready for the last half hour!” Michael called back. It had actually only been twenty minutes since he had gotten home from work, but for those twenty minutes he had been forced to stay in the living room. This meant that he could neither change out of his work uniform nor take care of an even more pressing need, since both bathrooms were down the hall in the “forbidden” area.
“We said, ‘Are you ready for some football?’” Marti and Kevin called out together.
“Yes, I’m ready for some football! Please give me some football! Seriously, I’m so ready for some football—and I better get it soon or else I’m going to be ready for some paper towels.”
Marti came walking out from the back rooms. Michael shot her a pleading look.
“I know, I know,” she said with a mischievous look on her face. “Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great honor to introduce to you . . . Kevin Michael Goff, world’s greatest Mustangs fan.”
Michael and Marti started clapping and cheering. Kevin came running down the hall and leaped into the living room. Michael stopped clapping, stared with his mouth hanging open, then fell on the floor in hysterics. Kevin was shirtless, and exactly half of his body from forehead down to waistline was painted orange and half was painted blue—although what had looked blue in the store was tending toward purple on the body. Then, smack-dab in the middle—painted in brilliant white—was the letter M. Kevin was dancing and flexing his little eight-year-old muscles, all the while chanting, “Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs! Go, Mustangs!”
Michael laughed so hard that the earlier serious problem quickly became an emergency. He stumbled past Kevin and Marti—laughing all the way down the hall and into the bathroom.
Monday Night Jihad Page 13
